It's the Heart that Really Matters in the End
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Post-TFP. Sherlock finds a strange, unexpected package from Molly the morning after the phone call. On top of that, Molly's friend, Meena, has been missing for days. What's a besotted consulting detective and a pathologist to do?
1. The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note:** A fun fact for y'all is that this fic was originally named 'The One Where Molly Bakes Shit' lol! This is supposed to be a happier toned post-tfp fic (no more than 3 chapters), so I hope y'all enjoy this plot bunny that implanted itself into my head yesterday.

* * *

Molly Hooper was a strange woman. Unique, but most definitely strange. This is what went through Sherlock's head as he stared at the package that now sat atop the counter in Mycroft's home. It wasn't large, nor was it miniscule. He wasn't sure what was inside, but he knew it had been personally delivered by her. A lump rose in the detective's throat as his mind flashed back to the day before. That phone call should have torn his friendship—and potential romantic entanglement—with Molly to shreds, and yet, here she was delivering mystery packages to him.

Sherlock stepped closer toward the package as if he were frightened by it. He could smell the light, flowery scent of her perfume, but mixed with the scents of lemon, ginger, and—was that cinnamon? "How peculiar," Sherlock mused.

"What's peculiar, brother mine?" Mycroft Holmes inquired. "You act as if whatever resides in Miss Hooper's package will harm you.

"Perhaps it will," Sherlock snapped in irritation. He paused, took a breath, and continued in a quiet voice, "After all, I deserve it." Though Mycroft wasn't good with emotions, he could tell his brother crestfallen.

"We don't have time for this, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him. "We must meet mummy and father soon."

Carefully, Sherlock pulled one of the ends of the fabric bow tied around the package, unraveling it, and opened up the box. Peering inside, he found a variety of baked goods: lemon cakes, cinnamon raisin scones, and the ginger nuts he loved so much. There was a letter addressed to him lying on top of the pastries. Attempting to swallow the lump in his throat, Sherlock untucked the envelope's flap and retrieved the letter.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_ It has come to my attention that you were in distress yesterday. Anthea refused to say anything more on the matter other than the fact that all of our lives were on the line—in our case, the phone line._

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, unable to keep from hearing Molly laugh at her own joke.

_I'm not angry with you; it's imperative that you know this. I never intended for my deepest secret to be revealed to you, so for both of our sakes, can we pretend it didn't happen? I apologise for forcing your empty words; that wasn't fair. I should have noticed the rising panic in your voice right away, but I allowed my emotions to get the best of me. I see why you suppress them; they're a nuisance sometimes. Mycroft gave me a teensy bit more information, telling me it was a family matter, and that your parents will be in town today. I couldn't sleep last night, so I thought I'd bake the scones for your parents, as it's their favourite, and lemon cakes for Mycroft. I know you love your ginger nut biscuits, so I thought you might like some. No, you don't have to share._

His heart lurched at her words, unable to fathom Molly's unwavering kindness and love. To just let the situation roll off her shoulders took a strength that Sherlock had always admired about her.

_Writing this next portion if only for my benefit. I feel that writing this to you would be cathartic for me. After you read it, we will both never speak of it again…deal? Okay, her it goes…_

_ Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I always have and always will. I know it is unwanted by you, but it's not something that can be controlled; believe me, I've tried. I never said anything, because I don't expect anything. Treat this factoid as if it were as meaningless as knowledge about the solar system. _

_ Regardless of what happened yesterday, know that I am here for you. If you need to talk, you know where to find me. _

_Love, Molly_

"Well?" Mycroft asked impatiently. Sherlock said nothing, but allowed his brother to read the letter for himself, only after having torn it right before Molly's written confession. That was for him alone. Mycroft couldn't read his brother's emotions, as they were conflicting, but noticed him slide the torn piece into the inside pocket of his Belstaff before promptly turning away. Something stopped him, though, and he doubled back to snag the ginger nuts before heading to his temporary bedroom.

Sherlock couldn't help but mull over the contents of Molly's letter. The portion of it he carried near his heart was the bit he was most concerned about.

Meaningless. How could Molly ever believe what she felt was meaningless to him? After all, in retrospect, it was her love that saved him on multiple occasions. But did she realise that? Probably not. Sherlock's heart felt as if it might burst. Everyone he cared about made it out alive last night, and though his sister's vivisection was a nightmare, Sherlock couldn't deny the one good thing that came out of it. His carefully constructed walls were in ruins, but the flood of emotion coursing through him was no longer unwelcome. Sherlock thought emotions and sentiment were only destructive, but he found himself feeling rejuvenated. He never felt so alive, his heart thrumming with uncontrollable emotions.

He looked at the time on his watch, and knew they would have to head to Mycroft's office in less than five minutes in order to beat their parents there. This was going to be the hardest part. There would most surely be tears, and definitely anger. When mummy was angry, she was an unstoppable storm of rage. Sherlock heard Mycroft call to him that it was time to go. _Once more unto the breach_, he sighed.

* * *

Molly flopped down on her sofa, already exhausted. It was only ten in the morning, and she had already seen Greg who had—on Mycroft's orders—searched her flat and removed the cameras from whatever had happened the day before, and she delivered baked goods to the Holmes brothers and their parents. The night before, she had been downright distraught, but upon closer inspection, she realised something had to be wrong and that was when Greg had called her whilst he was on his way to rescue John, Sherlock, and Mycroft. She found out that 221B had blown up, but everyone survived, and that John had been stuck in a well for God knows how long. Sherlock had been frightened and panicky during that call, and it made her heart ache for the both of them.

The weirdest part of the whole thing was that Molly couldn't seem to get ahold of Meena at all for the last couple of days. She had tried again this morning, but still nothing. This was unlike her friend to not immediately pick up her mobile. Just before coming back home, Molly had gone to Meena's flat to visit, but the landlord informed her that she hadn't been home in days. It was an entirely separate mystery that made absolutely no sense.

So, now, Molly just sat lazily on the sofa, flipping through channels on the telly, but nothing held her attention for long. She was feeling restless, wishing she could fast-forward through the day so that she could go into work for the night shift already. This was the kind of restlessness that ended up in her kitchen looking like a disaster as she baked to her heart's content. _Maybe_, she thought, _I'll just see if John thinks Rosie would like some company_.


	2. Emotional Context

**Author's Note:** In this installment, Molly gets the context of the phone call in full. I re-watched the ILY scene many times over today, and there's a lot of dialogue from it featured in this chapter, interspersed with Molly's thoughts.

* * *

"How does he always know?" John asked in surprise when he opened his door to find Molly outside of it.

"How does who always know? Sherlock?" Molly asked, hearing her voice strain as she said his name.

"Well, him too, but this time it was Mycroft. Sorry, come in, Molls." John gestured for her to follow him.

"Mycroft knew I'd be coming over here today?" Molly questioned. She watched as John picked up a disc, and put it in the DVD player.

"Yes, and he gave this to me temporarily, because he felt you should see it for yourself," John explained. "It's the, uh, footage from a criminal institution called Sherrinford; it's where we were yesterday, playing into a bunch of mind games. Well, they were games made for Sherlock to rip him apart mentally and emotionally. Anyways, you might want to sit down for this."

Molly knew she was about to gain a lot more information on the previous night, and she wasn't sure if she was ready, but she needed to be. It made her furious to know that Sherlock had been tortured, despite the fact she had once thought he was torturing her. There were three camera angles on the screen. One was facing the doorway from above and another faced a television screen, and one that was set about Sherlock's height, face-forward. There was a coffin in the dimly lit room, and the lid was leaning against the back wall. Sherlock, John, and Mycroft were already standing in the room.

_"Coffin. Problem: someone is about to die. It will be—as I understand it—a tragedy. So many days not lived, so many words unsaid, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera—" a cold voice rang out._

_"Yes, yes, yes, and this—I presume—will be their coffin," Sherlock interrupted, exasperated. _

Molly stared open-mouthed as she saw Meena's face, only it wasn't. Meena was never really Meena. Her voice was colder; devoid of any emotion. It sent chills up her spine. An overwhelming feeling of betrayal ran through her. This whole time, and—Molly felt so stupid. Sherlock was right. She did have an uncanny ability of attracting unstable people.

_"Whose coffin, Sherlock?" she taunted. "Please, start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment."_

_Sherlock audibly sighed as he turned back towards the coffin. "Well, allowing for the entirely pointless courtesy of headroom, I'd say this coffin is intended for someone of about five foot four. Makes it more likely to be a woman."_

_"Not a child?" John asked._

_"A child's coffin would be more expensive. This is in the lower price range, although still best available in that bracket," Sherlock rattled off._

_"A lonely night on Google," John quipped._

Despite the dire situation, and knowing that this coffin has been made for her, Molly couldn't help but snicker at John's joke.

_"This is a practical and informed choice. Balance of probability suggests that this is for an unmarried woman, distant from her close relatives. That much is suggested by the economy of choice."_

_Mycroft propped the coffin's lid against the wall, flipping it over to see the epitaph on the outside, frowning at it._

_"…Acquainted with the process of death, but unsentimental about the necessity of disposal. Also, the lining of the coffin—"_

_Interrupting his brother, Mycroft said, "Yes, very good, Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid."_

Molly watched the scene play out. Sherlock approached the lid, and sighed dejectedly when he read it.

_"Only it isn't a name," Mycroft stated._

John paused the footage, and turned to Molly. "In case you were wondering, the epitaph said, 'I love you.'" She only nodded, unable to form any coherent words. The footage continued on, only to break her heart.

_"So, it's for somebody who loves somebody," John pointed out._

_"It's for somebody who loves Sherlock," Mycroft corrected, looking at his brother. "This is all about you. Everything here."_

_Sherlock gently gripped the head end of the coffin with his hands, his face showing nothing but pure terror._

Molly's heart ached watching this, especially after realising the most important thing. The dead didn't write their own epitaphs, the living did. If this whole thing was about her and Sherlock, the only logical conclusion is that the coffin is for someone that Sherlock loved…in this case, it was her.

_"So," Mycroft continued, "who loves you? I'm assuming it's not a long list."_

_Sherlock's gaze bore into the coffin as if he were willing it to crumble beneath his touch._

_"Irene Adler," John suggested. _

_"Don't be ridiculous, look at the coffin," Sherlock countered. "Unmarried, practical about death, alone." Sherlock's face was twisted into a painful expression. This was already killing him slowly._

_"Molly." John's eyes widened._

_"Molly Hooper," Sherlock confirmed._

_"She's perfectly safe, for the moment."_

Molly was jarred by hearing Meena's voice again, having forgotten all about her involvement. The television angle showed the screen changing to show three camera angles of her kitchen. A countdown of three minutes appeared in the top, right-hand corner.

_The woman continued to drone on. "Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes, unless I hear the release code from her lips. I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock. Make her say it."_

_ "Say what?" John asked._

_ Sherlock only pursed his lips in a firm line, his eyes shut in anguish._

_ "Obvious, surely?"_

_ John, still seeing but not observing, replied, "No."_

_ "Yes." It was Sherlock. He turned to look at the epitaph on the lid, and the others followed suit. _

_ "Oh, one important restriction: you're not allowed to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger. You may not—at any point—suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session and her life. Are we clear?"_

Molly now realised why Sherlock had been trying so hard to not cause alarm, but she couldn't forget the panicked tone of voice he had whilst talking to her. All the clues were there. He had told her just to listen—to really pay close attention. She felt so stupid having not caught it at the time, allowing her emotions to cancel out the logic.

She jumped slightly upon hearing Moriarty's voice tick-tocking away. Watching Sherlock's increasing panic as she didn't pick up the phone, and refused to do what he asked made Molly's heart beat rapidly. John and Mycroft looked as if the building tension would make them combust. Reliving the situation like this was giving every bit of context, and though it hurt like hell, it put her mind at ease.

_"Leave me alone," Molly demanded._

_ "Molly, no, please, no don't hang up!" Sherlock shouted, gesturing wildly. "Do not hang up!"_

Molly watched on as she battled with him with the added addition of Meena's cold reminders, and Moriarty's incessant tick-tocks. It was almost too much to bear; she couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock must have been feeling. She heard her own voice crying at him that it's always been true, her deepest secret ripped from her heart. Sherlock blinked in confusion when she demanded that he say it first. Molly felt chills rise on her arms at her own cold tone of voice. Mycroft looked as if it was already too late.

_"I—" Sherlock was clearly struggling with the words. "I love you." It was unsure, clumsy, but then a look of clarity softened his tightened features. "I love you." The words flowed from him, smooth as whisky, full of emotion._

Tears dropped one-by-one from her eyes as she watched the realisation dawn on Sherlock, which, in return, had her realise that he meant each word. He loved her. His words weren't empty—God, what he must have felt upon reading her words in that letter. Her heart felt as if it was being ripped open, shred by shred. She wanted to see him so badly; to comfort him, and tell him everything would be alright.

When the phone call ended, Molly saw everyone exhale in relief, the thick tension lifting from the room. Sherlock buried his head in his hands, knowing he had been close to losing her.

_"Sherlock, however hard that was—" Mycroft began._

_"Eurus, I won. I won." Sherlock waited for Eurus's response. "Come on, play fair. The girl on the plane; I need to talk to her." Eurus's face scrunched with feigned emotion. "I won. I saved Molly Hooper."_

_"Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win. You lost." Eurus showed her hand, satisfied with Sherlock's reaction. "Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock, it destroys you every time."_

Molly watched as Sherlock struggled to come to terms with the ramifications of what had happened. Whilst Mycroft and John had visibly calmed down, Sherlock was nearly boiling with every negative emotion imaginable. She gasped loudly when Sherlock began busting the coffin apart with his bare hands in a frenzy of rage and pain, her hand covering her mouth to stifle her sobs. Molly only heard him shout those three words in his distress before the screen went to white noise.

"Molly?" John asked softly. "I wasn't sure if it'd be a good idea to show you, but Mycroft insisted." He waited patiently for her response, but she was cut off before any words could come out of her mouth.

"Damn it, Mycroft!"

John and Molly's heads whipped around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. He looked irritated whilst he looked at the telly, but his face softened at the sight of Molly's tear-stained face. Sherlock walked towards her, ignoring John, and sat between them on the sofa, taking her hands in his. "Are you alright?"

She smiled sadly at him. "I don't know," she croaked, her throat feeling raw. "Are you?"

Sherlock laughed as if it were a preposterous question. "You're the one who's had to relive that torturous moment, and _you're_ asking me if _I'm_ alright?" He laughed in disbelief once more. "You really are a perplexing woman, Molly Hooper." It was then that he pressed a soft kiss to her temple, then spoke softly in her ear. "Shall I take you home?"

Molly gave a small nod, allowing him to take the lead on this.

"If you two need to talk privately, I can sit in with Rosie whilst she sleeps," John offered. "She probably needs her nappy changed soon."

"Thank you, John, but that won't be necessary," Sherlock replied. "I think Molly may need the fresh air."

John watched as they left, Sherlock's hand hovering protectively at the small of Molly's back.


	3. We Will Only Just Remember How it Feels

The fresh air did do her some good, as it helped her organise her thoughts. She was still trying to wrap her mind around all that she had learned, but she still had questions. Neither she nor Sherlock had spoken at all during their walk, but when they came upon a park bench, she decided on taking a rest there. Molly studied the lines of his face, seeing the tension in his muscles, but the sadness in his eyes. He was staring ahead, not wanting to smother her by his attentions.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Who's Eurus?"

Sherlock turned toward her, now studying her face. "The sister I forgot about it—deleted from my memory due to childhood trauma she caused." He paused, wondering if he should divulge any further, but soon decided that there should be no more secrets between them. "She murdered my best friend by drowning him in a well when we were kids."

Molly was horror-stricken, her heart aching for Sherlock. She squeezed his right hand, but not too firmly, since his hands had been bandaged from the damage he did to her coffin. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He acknowledged her with a sad smile, and squeezed her hand back affectionately. "I knew her as Meena," Molly told him. "I haven't been able to get a hold of her for days, and suddenly, there she was in the Sherrinford footage." All this time, she had been friends with Sherlock's sister—his crazed, sociopathic sister. She was the only one who knew how deeply Molly felt about him. The guilt ate at her.

"Mycroft should have allowed me to make the decision to have you see it," he grumbled. "I wasn't going to keep it from you, but it's too much at once, is it not?"

Molly nodded. "Perhaps, but I'm glad I know the context now."

"Context," Sherlock repeated, mulling the word over. "Word of the day."

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sherlock furrowed his brows, perplexed by her words. "Meena—Eurus was the only one who knew how I felt about you. If I hadn't been so stupid to see that something was seriously wrong with her—"

"Molly, don't," Sherlock interrupted. "This isn't your fault." He ran a hand through his disheveled curls. "Eurus had implanted herself into all of our lives through immaculate deception; even I couldn't see past it." Molly noticed Sherlock holding a scrap of paper in his left hand, twiddling with it.

Tentatively, she reached out toward it, curiosity getting the best of her. "What is that?" He didn't reply, but passed the paper over to her. She unfolded it, and saw her own writing reflecting back at her, knowing he had read this particular potion of her letter several times over today due to the deepened creases.

Sherlock suddenly took her free hand in his, his cerulean eyes boring into her deep brown ones. "Your feelings are not meaningless. You mean a great deal to me, Molly, more than I can put into words. These words"—he pointed at the letter—"mean _everything_ to me. _You_ mean everything to me."

In a split second, his other hand was cupping her cheek gently. "I've known for quite some time that I felt…something for you, much more than friendship. Molly, I know I've only just realised how deeply I feel about you, but I don't want to wait until another disaster strikes where it'll be too late."

Molly's breath hitched as Sherlock leaned in so close she could smell the scent of her ginger nut biscuits on his breath. "My darling," he whispered, "I am irrevocably in love with you. I don't want to waste any more time." Exhilaration overcame them both, and Molly was thankful that he swooped in and pressed his lips to hers tenderly, using the tip of his tongue to tease her lips apart just enough for him to deepen their kiss. The letter remained in her lap whilst she intertwined her hand in his hair, pulling him closer, which only made him nuzzle his nose against hers. Their remaining kisses were softer and slower until they came to a complete standstill.

Neither knew why, but they both began laughing, letting go of all that inner turmoil and stress. Eventually, Molly stood up, offering her hand to him. He took it, and stood up beside her. "I have to go in to work tonight, but we should probably both get some sleep."

Sherlock had a wicked gleam in his eye. "Miss Hooper, you're not suggesting we share a bed so early in our courtship?"

"Courtship?" she laughed. "That is what I'm suggesting, Mister Holmes, but don't get any ideas. I'm afraid sleep is the only thing on my to-do list."

"Did I not make the cut?" he quipped, clearly enjoying himself. Molly rolled her eyes playfully.

They hailed a cab to her flat, and it took no time at all for her to slip into her pyjamas and snuggle up beside Sherlock in her bed. Molly began peppering kisses against his neck, much to Sherlock's delight.

"Are you quite sure sleep is the only thing on your mind?" he asked. Molly had to admire his tenacity. She leaned up on her arm to look into the eyes of the man she loved so much.

"You know, if we do this, it'll be quite the scandal, Mister Holmes," she teased, her fingers not-so-subtly popping the buttons of his shirt open.

"Quite," he agreed with an alluring smile. "But we'll both sleep better afterwards." Molly hummed in agreement against his lips as she kissed him, willing to lose herself in his arms, to freely love him the way she had always wanted to; the way he deserved to be loved.

* * *

Though they had both been thoroughly sated, Sherlock couldn't sleep. It didn't bother him, though. He was perfectly content to be holding his Molly in his arms as she slept soundly with her head on his chest. Seeing the woman he loved curled up against him had him finding that he would go through all of that pain again if only to be with her. Sherlock didn't have many regrets, but he did wish he could turn back time, and fix all the times he had hurt her. He would have snogged her properly instead of that painful kiss on the cheek. They could have danced together at John and Mary's wedding. There were so many things he wished he could relive with her. If he hadn't been so cowardly before, Eurus wouldn't have forced that phone call. But, he realised, she could have done something much worse had that been the case.

"Mmph," Molly sounded, her eyes fluttering open ever so slowly. Upon seeing him, she buried her face in his neck, nuzzling her nose against him. Sherlock's heart was gaining momentum, beating wildly when she kissed him just above his clavicle. "What time is it?"

"It's nearly nine-thirty," he replied. "You could sleep for another half hour before you have to get up." Sherlock's fingers tenderly traced the curves of her body, eliciting a most pleasant sound from Molly's lips. He then lifted the hand she had laying over his heart and kissed each dainty finger.

"How am I supposed to sleep when you're distracting me from it?" she asked him, her voice muffled. "Not that I mind." He felt her smile against his skin. Molly gasped as he quickly turned the tables on her, now hovering above her. The absolute love she saw in his eyes when he looked at her froze her in place, not wanting to look away. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he leaned down to kiss her softly. Sherlock whispered those three words against her lips, and she reveled in it, humming pleasurably in return. In the midst of it all, it occurred to her that the waiting and bad timing was over. They both found a slice of happiness within each other, and though it wouldn't always be all sunshine, Molly found herself looking forward to the storms too.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Annnndddd, that's all, y'all! Please let me know if you had a favorite line or moment in this chapter, as this was my favorite chapter to write! Oh, and brownie points to anyone who can tell me the song that the title of this fic and chapter came from :p


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